


the ever free

by TheDawnHarbinger



Category: The Terror (2018 TV series), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, M/M, Spoilers, flirting through poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 17:29:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14430585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDawnHarbinger/pseuds/TheDawnHarbinger
Summary: The C the C the open C/It grew so fresh the ever free/the ever free the ever free/without it without it — from the papers of Henry Peglar, April 21 1847





	the ever free

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we go! I was going to write pwp but I had feelings instead and this rambling little thing happened.
> 
> This is spoiler-heavy for everything after episode five and my memory of book!canon is pretty spotty, so probably set more in the show 'verse? Unbeta'ed and incredibly disorganized, so I'm sorry for any errors that might crop up!

( _I love the C I love the C_

_When I whare I wish to be with_ )

_one._

“This word, here – it’s not one I’ve seen before, I think.”

John Bridgens had been leaning over the table to coax a lantern to light, but he looked up at once, attentive and thoughtful, and Harry Peglar couldn't quite hide a fond smile; he couldn’t imagine a better or more earnest tutor and, indeed, that was only the beginning of the older man’s fine qualities.

“Which one?” John asked, swinging the lantern door shut as a tentative flame began to bloom behind the glass and, as always, showing not even so much as a hint of impatience or ill temper at having to give yet another explanation. He was smiling too, now – softening the lines of his face and making his eyes achingly warm – but as intent on his duties as always.

Harry passed him the book and then moved closer, resting his chin against the other’s shoulder, and then reaching up and around to point at the offending word. The cabin was narrow, barely a foot of spare space between cot and table, and he was glad to take any excuse to stand curled so close together. “Halfway down and after _‘on mountain or in dale’..._ ”

There was a brief silence, comfortable and familiar, and then—

“ _Graze_ ,” John said, running his finger absently over the tightly-printed lines of poetry and then tilting his head – a few strands of graying hair tickled Harry’s cheek, making him grin – and adding, gently, “You see the curve of the the ‘g’ and the ‘r’, there?”

He made to hand the book back, but Harry had read ahead a few verses and knew very well _exactly_ what was coming next and stopped him quickly before he could. “Read it to me a little longer, John. Please.”

Harry was sure he’d never be tired of hearing John read aloud and marveling at how even the driest words came to life on his tongue; listening to the lulling hum of the older man’s low voice, he could _see_ the sun-dappled rivers and the dark, inviting woods and the distant mountains. It was a request he made often and, as usual, it wasn’t refused – even if this time, his voice was a little more mischievous than usual.

“‘ _Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie’_ and...”

And then there was only a faint flutter of dry pages and the soft noise of a book, quickly forgotten, landing on the table. 

( _When I was on Old England Shore_

_I like the young C more and more_ )

_two._

A drop of ink rolled off the tip of Harry’s pen and left a dark stain on the open page of his pocketbook – he’d hesitated too long trying to decide how to begin copying out the latest letter. He wanted to keep the message safe and preserve it, but he knew from experience that he wouldn’t be able to do it properly; he would mangle the carefully-chosen, intimate words without meaning to, the letters falling out of order or twisting themselves around back-to-front, and some of the beauty would be lost.

Another crewman – so bundled up in woolen scarves and red-cheeked from the cold that Harry couldn’t immediately tell who it was – leaned over his shoulder curiously, caught a glimpse of the first few words _(‘my dearest H.—’_ ), and asked, with an amiable sort of disinterest, "That from your sweetheart back home?"  
  
"Yes," Harry said without thinking, before realizing his mistake; John wrote with an exceedingly good hand, but the slanting lines didn't look very much at all like those written by a young lady. He turned the page away, half-shielding it with his hand like a guilty boy hiding a rude note from a schoolmaster, and hoped that his hesitation would be mistaken for simple bashfulness. "That is— yes."

_Back home_. Not quite so far as that.

Harry pressed the edge of his thumb to the spot of spilled ink, trying to keep it from sinking in too deep, and then there was a dark little smear on his skin, looking remarkably like a bruise. He scrubbed at it idly, already starting to write again, but it didn’t go away. 

( _And offtimes flew to a shelltering place_

_like a bird that seek it mother Case_ )

_three._

The smoke still lingered in Harry’s lungs. It clung to him like a shroud until he buried his face in the crook of John’s neck and breathed _him_ in instead, drowning the stench of the burning carnival in ink and tobacco and linen. He’d twisted his hands into the soft, thick fabric of the older man’s shirt to keep them from shaking and, beneath his questing fingertips, he could feel the thrum of a racing heartbeat.

Somehow that was worse than feeling the panicked pounding in his own chest, worse than being afraid himself. He trusted John with his life – every inch of his soul and more – and the realization that the other had been just as frightened by what had happened was very nearly unbearable.

It had been hours since the night’s revelry had come its nightmarish end – or at least, Harry _thought_ it had been hours, but time had seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally ever since they’d run aground in this desolate hell – and the fires had burned down to charcoal and ruins. And they were tucked away safely in the dim quiet of an otherwise empty tent, alone again and away from the others, but, when he closed his eyes, he could still see the flames and he could _hear_ —

_Safely._

“When I didn’t see you in the crowd, I thought for certain—” he began, but the words choked him and, drawing back a little to study the other’s face and seeing the look in his eyes, he knew they could be left unsaid. He’d always been fairly good at reading John – though not quite as good, he thought, as John was at reading _him_ – and it seemed plain that he hadn’t been the only one to think such things _._

Once, what felt like more than a thousand years ago now, they’d talked about it; the fact that John was considerably older and that, one day, Harry might be alone. At the time, he’d felt a sharp edge of sadness at the prospect, but he’d only smiled and sworn that that day would never come and brushed the matter aside. But now, having suddenly been forced to confront that fear, the thought of John leaving him was more than he could stand.

In the smoke-riddled darkness, Harry kissed him – kissed his lips, his hands, the dark lines of the tattoo on his forearm – and thought about flames licking across the pages of a book, turning paper to ash and making words curl and crumble into nothing, lost forever.

( _the ever free the ever free_

_without it without it_ )

_four._

In the endless cold of the arctic night, Harry lay in his tent and ran his fingers over the strange bruises that had bloomed on his skin – places where he knew his flesh was rotting – and thought about how John had touched him once. He imagined that they were at sea again, lying close together in the same bunk as the ship rocked over the waves and carried them home. Then he remembered John kissing him and, pressing his own tongue hard against his teeth to mimic the memory of it, felt blood begin to fill his mouth.

Harry had grown considerably less sure of the world around him as the disease wormed its way inside him, but he _knew_ that John was close by – only a few tents away, in the makeshift infirmary with Doctor Goodsir and whichever other poor soul they might be taking care of. He could get up and go to him, easily; the walk through the camp might make his bones ache a little and visiting too often might raise suspicions, but did that truly matter now?

He stared into the darkness and resolved that he would count as far as twenty and then he would get up. He’d count as far as twenty, and then he’d go to him.

He’d go and John would have him sit down and would tend to him and say something to comfort him – here, he tried to imagine John’s voice and what exactly he would say, but the weariness was growing stronger and he couldn’t quite manage it – and, if the infirmary was otherwise empty, might even hold him for a while. And then he wouldn’t be so frightened.

He’d only wait a while longer, and then he’d go to him.

Then he'd go.

( _the ever free_

_the ever—_ )

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hit me up on [tumblr](https://yonderharbinger.tumblr.com/) because this show is my life and I'd really love to gush about it? (or even take a fic request or two, if anyone was ever interested!)


End file.
